


a mysterious song falls from golden stars

by ronniesshoes



Series: 30 Days of OTP [2]
Category: Queen (Band)
Genre: Dressing Room Sex, Fingering, M/M, Spanking, Submissive Brian, on tour
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-06-09
Updated: 2019-06-09
Packaged: 2020-04-23 15:14:26
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,522
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19153585
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ronniesshoes/pseuds/ronniesshoes
Summary: a dressing room mirror catches brian's attention/day two: fingering





	a mysterious song falls from golden stars

There’s a large mirror leaning against the wall in their shared dressing room.

It’s not like Brian takes much notice of the interior in the sparsely decorated dressing rooms they file in and out of during their numerous concerts on tour, and he’s sure that were he asked to describe one of these rooms in detail, he would come up blank. 

But in this dressing room stands a large mirror leaning against the wall. It’s not unusual for a dressing room to have a mirror —i t is, in fact, quite essential, Brian thinks — but he remembers his slight annoyance over the fact that this particular mirror was standing rather than hung, effectively cutting off the upper half of his body when he had looked in it earlier.

He’s grateful for it now, sprawled over Roger’s lap as he is, arse in the air and still in elaborate stagewear, post show adrenaline coursing through his veins. 

Freddie and John are back at the hotel already, and Roger is freshly showered and changed back into jeans and shirt, but Brian had been so keyed up he’d begged for it, and that’s how he finds himself in the least comfortable position he’s ever experienced, and that includes both sex on a plane and a disastrous blowjob in a car. Roger is seated on the narrow couch, and Brian has one knee on the couch and one foot on the floor, a hand gripping the armrest of the couch, the other tangled in the leg of Roger’s jeans. 

And if he cranes his neck, he can look in the mirror, see Roger’s hands on his own bare arse, can catch a glimpse of his hard cock against Roger’s thigh.

His trousers have been tugged down and are pooled around his knee on the couch. He’s not wearing any underwear and he’d wanted Roger to know even before they took stage, had cocked his hips and lifted his guitar every time he’d been facing the drums, had relished the solid body of his guitar against his crotch every time Freddie rutted against him on stage, and a warm, sure hand slides over Brian’s skin now, makes him shiver with want. 

“You’re so pretty like this,” Roger murmurs, starting a small fire in the pit of Brian’s stomach. His fingers trail up Brian’s thigh, up over his buttock, and Brian lets out a whimpering noise and spreads his legs as far as he’s able to.

“Please,” he gasps, because he’s wanted this for  _ hours _ , and the teasing, barely-there touch drives him insane. 

“So impatient,” Roger says, a note of amusement in his voice. He removes his hand, and Brian almost gets off his lap and starts fingering himself right then and there.

Then there’s the loud click of a bottle being uncapped, and he grinds against Roger’s thigh until he feels a warning hand on the small of his back. 

He strains to get a proper look in the mirror, wants to see Roger slick up his fingers, wants to see him knuckle-deep in his arse, wants to see it all, to feel—

Oh.  _ Oh. _

Brian almost falls to the floor if not for Roger’s hand to steady him; the slick pressure over his opening has him scrambling to press into it, and an embarrassing noise bubbles from his throat.

Roger slides into him, the barest tip of his finger, and Brian stands on his toes to press into the touch, so full of need it's insane, and when Roger presses in further, he makes a sound at the back of his throat, a low whine he didn’t know he could produce. 

Roger's hand is caressing his thighs, sliding over his exposed skin, and Brian loves being bent over Roger's lap, halfway undressed and vulnerable, sounds of footsteps passing sometimes audible from the hallway. The lube makes everything sweet and slick, and he lets his head hang, his hair brushing against the hardwood floor as Roger fingers him open. He tries to relax, tries to let the feeling flood him, to go with it, but it's not long before he's panting and trying to shove back into it because he cannot stand it, he wants more, he needs it harder and faster, and Roger is so slow, working his finger inside Brian like he's got all the time in the world, like Brian isn't about to _die_ -

"Please," he whimpers, and suddenly a thought flashes in his mind, startlingly vivid, "please spank me." 

Roger draws in a sharp breath, his hand stilling, and Brian almost wants to die, but he can see himself in the dressing room mirror and he wants to see and feel Roger's hand land hard on his arse, wants to hear the sound of skin against skin echo throughout the room. 

"Please," he says quietly.

“I can’t believe how lovely you are,” Roger says like he’s in awe, and he carefully removes his finger to stroke over one buttock, warm and soothing, “lying here, bent over my lap, asking me to spank you. What if someone heard? Do you want to get caught?”

The words send a jolt of pleasure down his spine. He doesn’t want to get caught, he doesn’t, but he needs this, needs to watch himself get spanked in the dressing room mirror. He begs again, and Roger lifts his hand, Brian's heart hammering in his chest as he twists to get a good look.

“Fuck,” he chokes out as Roger’s hand comes down hard, the smack ringing loud in his ears, “again, please, again.”

Roger smacks him again, and Brian ruts against his thigh, so desperate he thinks he might lose his mind.

“So good for me,” Roger says, stroking his sweaty back. “Do you want me to get you off, baby?”

"So much," Brian gasps, arching into the touch when Roger teases his hole, "please, want you so much."

“Want you, too,” Roger says, pushing in his finger. Brian clenches around him. "Gonna finger you until you come."

Brian’s dick jumps at the words, and when Roger adds another finger, when he curls them, hitting that sweet spot, Brian grinds into it. His cock is aching, and it hurts a little when he slides against the rough demin of Roger's jeans, but he doesn't care. His body feels aflame, the sporadic pressure on his prostate too much and not enough. He's watching in his mirror still, body twisted, drooling mouth pressed against Roger's leg, wetting the denim. He wants it so much, but the rhythm is unsatisfying; he can grind back against Roger's fingers and forward to massage his dick against the meat of Roger's thigh, but his movements are limited, and Roger’s hand stills when he pushes back. He's talking to him soothingly, the hand not in his arse stroking the prickling skin underneath the collar of his shirt, and there is an embarrassing array of noises escaping Brian's throat.

He so badly wants to fuck himself on Roger’s fingers, so badly wants to make himself come.

"Please," he whimpers, "please let me come."

Roger draws a shuddery breath. "You like looking at yourself, don't you?" he murmurs. The hand that has previously been stroking the nape of his neck slides further down to lightly grip around his throat. "Like looking at yourself bent over my lap."

Brian whimpers in agreement. He strains to look again, but Roger’s hand holds him in place. He grinds back against the push of fingers, and the pressure builds in his stomach, a tight coil of pleasure.

He wishes Roger would take him hard and fast, press him up against the mirror so he would knock his forehead against the glass, so he could look at himself, drooling and wrecked. 

Roger massages his prostate until he’s burning all over, slow and unrelenting, and Brian sobs into Roger’s trouser leg, the pleasure too sharp, too intense. 

“Come for me, Brian,” Roger says, low and husky, and he does, wetting the leg of Roger’s jeans and dripping down on the dressing room floor.

Words of praise spill from Roger's lips as he works him through it, as he keeps moving his fingers until it's too much and Brian jerks away. Brian is boneless and spent, draped over Roger's thighs, when Roger carefully he removes his fingers. He wants to lie down, preferably somewhere more comfortable than the floor, but he doesn't think he could move even if he wanted to. 

"Wanna get back to the hotel?" Roger asks, stroking over his exposed skin. Brian shivers.

"Can't," he says. He wonders what he would see if he turned his head. 

"This can't be a comfortable position," Roger says, which is true enough, but Brian suspects it has more to do with Roger's own comfort.

Brian groans, but gets up and to his feet on wobbly legs. His trousers are on the couch, and he picks them up and shimmers into them, careful to mind his still sensitive cock.

"So much for a shower and clean clothes," Roger says, inspecting the stain on his jeans. 

Brian leans down for a kiss. "Join me for another?"


End file.
